Awake From the Dream
by Bobbie
Summary: One thing of which she was very certain, one thing that had been crystal clear the moment she'd awoke from all four fantastic layers of The Dream, was that she would never do anything like it ever again. A/A in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

She hadn't thought beyond The Flight.

The past few weeks had been one foot in front of the other. One building before the next. Brick by brick, breath by breath, minute to minute. Pressing beyond that would have been too much. Through it all, the enormity of her circumstances threatened to steal her resolve.

She hadn't gotten this far without some tenacity, though, and for that, she was thankful. She came from this "job" like she suspected she would emerge from any other: smarter, tougher, less naive, and financially a bit more secure.

She was also exhausted, afraid, bewildered, humbled, and uncertain about a great many things.

Standing by the luggage claim, she could feel a tremor beginning in her legs, ascending slowly to incorporate her knees, her hands and arms, until she felt the need to clench her jaw to keep her teeth from rattling together. She fancied she imagined the sensation until she saw the shake in her arm as she reached for her luggage from the turnstile. Immediately self-conscious, her eyes darted to those around her inconspicuously, a sea of strangers, all eyes trained on the river of unclaimed baggage, or staring at nothing while immersed in telephonic conversation, or searching for a clock face. She waited for them all to freeze and turn empty gazes upon her, no longer people but the puppets of some unseen subconscious. The moment passed as soon as it had come, and with it the trembling.

One thing of which she was very certain, one thing that had been crystal clear the moment she'd awoke from all four fantastic layers of The Dream, was that she would never do anything like it ever again.

She might have pretended all those days with four incredibly, albeit unusually, talented men, squirreled away in some dingy warehouse surrounded by endless models and sketches was a fantasy, something to keep her entertained through the monotonous drone of her professors. But then she'd catch the eye of Prof. Miles, and he'd hold her gaze a bit too long. He'd walk past her unusually slowly in the library. He'd pause in his conversations when she'd pass him in the halls. She felt as though he were hovering, waiting for her to crack.

It didn't make coming back to reality any easier.

She waited after class one day, weeks after that fateful "work placement", watching him silently as he packed his briefcase. She didn't speak until he noticed her sitting there, his lips parting into a silent "o". He took a breath to speak, but she didn't let him. He wasn't allowed to ask her if she was "okay".

"Just stop it," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, her tone almost menacing. "You knew what I'd be getting into when you introduced me to him. Whatever concerns you have about my well-being would have been put to better use before then."

And that was all she was going to give him. That, and graduating top of her class eight months later.

The first four months were the hardest. She tried not to isolate herself; she knew that would perhaps only heighten her sense of emptiness, of loss. She couldn't explain it, only theorized. She missed the work, the busy-ness of it all, of tackling each new challenge with a ferocity and detached calculation that often left her coworkers (or is it co-conspirators, or maybe co-dreamers?) speechless. She missed the people: Cobb, possessed by his passion and his desperation, who had needed her help not only in building mazes but navigating those of his own design; Eames, with his lighthearted, albeit usually inappropriately placed humor; Yusef, mainly for his enthusiasm…she sometimes wished she'd gotten to know him better, but perhaps it was for the best; and Arthur, reliable, resourceful, resilient, cool, calculating Arthur. She fancied she might have enjoyed meeting him under different circumstances, but wishful thinking evaporated as days melted into one another, and all she longed for was a night without dreams, without memories of a dead wife, and children she had never met and never would.

She tried to comfort herself with the memory of Cobb, his head high, his steps determined as he strode out of the airport without looking back. Back then, his happy ending was enough for her. She felt it was enough for everyone, although she was certain Eames and Yusef were a bit happier with their bank accounts as well. When the nights were especially dark, she would conjure that image, along with that subtle look of surprise/relief when his passport was handed back to him, and it would carry her through.

She never spent any time contemplating the endless "what-ifs". They were tragedies in comparison.

Once, after checking into a hotel in LA, she'd fished her totem from within her coat pocket, rolling it in her palm, testing its weight in a fashion that had become habitual. She'd thought of how carefully she'd selected the piece, the effort she put into crafting it to make it her own. It was her reminder, the only physical souvenir of a psychedelic field trip. She'd placed it firmly on the nearest tabletop, her movement efficient as she bumped the piece with a delicately poised finger. The resounding "thunk" had seemed to echo throughout the entire room.

She'd wasted no time in plucking the piece from the table and dropping it unceremoniously in the nearest trashcan.

Two years later, she discovered the world was not small enough for her to forget the experience completely.

She'd been selected to present at an architectural conference in Spain. She hated conferences, not so much for the topic, for she was passionate about her work, if nothing else. What she loathed was dressing up. Skirts and heels were not her forte.

After three days and seven lectures, she couldn't wait to get back to jeans. Still, she didn't rush through the Q&A session that followed her last lecture, acknowledging the scattered applause with a nod and a perfunctory, prim smile before carefully meeting the AV tech half-way across the stage to hand him her microphone. She was minimally aware of others as she shut down her laptop and packed up her things, occasionally pausing to roll her shoulders or her neck. Her flight back to Paris left early the next morning; she'd secured an appointment at the hotel spa for that night, ready to unwind.

Her feet had felt like bricks in her pumps, legs aching from the knee down, and all she could think about was a sauna and a massage. She discreetly navigated through the remnants of the audience, not pausing as she fetched her cell from her briefcase, a soft curse escaping when it slipped from her hands to the floor. She sighed, head lolling to the side, eyes closing wearily, shoulders sagging with fatigue.

When she opened them again, a chest clothed in a well-tailored vest, immaculate tie, and crisp white shirt filled her vision, and before it, pieces of her phone cradled in masculine hands.

"Oh, thanks!" she blurted, her voice sounding tired but adequately polite as she hurried to collect the remnants. A cursory examination revealed no serious damage, only cosmetic, the screen intact and lighting up at her touch. She glanced up then, expecting the face of a well-meaning stranger, a rehearsed but kind smile upon her face, already poised to resume her exit. Instead, she faltered, her smile disappearing in an instant, replaced by a blank stare.

"You're welcome," Arthur replied, his tone formal, his visage amiable, one corner of his mouth turned up in a characteristic half-smirk. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers casually, and for a moment, she was in an abandoned warehouse in Paris, returning in defeat, unable to resist another opportunity to indulge in pure creation. He told her then that Cobb had said she'd be back. He'd been waiting for her.

He was waiting for her again, standing silently, watching as the air between them became heavier with each passing second, until she could barely breathe. She held out until the half-smirk finally faltered.

She said nothing, but deliberately averted her gaze and maneuvered around him. She'd taken four steps before she heard him call her name.

She kept walking, not the slightest hesitation in her stride. He didn't call out to her again.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I don't own a bit of Inception. Kudos to Nolan.

She dreams like any normal person. Sometimes terrifying, sometimes half-remembered, sometimes not at all. For this, she is thankful.

A month after the conference in Spain, she sees him again, this time after lunch with some friends, sitting inconspicuously outside a cafe in Greenwich. She draws up short at the sight of him, his eyes meeting hers over the edge of a newspaper. The two women with her, friends from undergrad who'd collaborated an outing that coordinated all their busy schedules while she was in town, seem not to notice the slip of her smile or the hitch in her step, both eager to get back to the day's demands. She pulls herself away from the stare long enough to give polite hugs and receive feather-light kisses on her cheeks amidst half-hearted promises to write or call soon.

She swallows the lump that suddenly appears in her throat as she watches them go their separate ways. Fleetingly, she imagines when she turns towards the cafe again, she'll see nothing but an empty table.

Instead, she finds his penetrating gaze once again, his cover abandoned, the paper folded neatly on the wrought iron table before him.

_"Quick, gimme a kiss…"_

The exchanges between them during the Fischer job had been reserved, polite, professional. There had been moments punctuated by pure emotion, but this was usually preceded by getting killed by a malevolent projection of Cobb's wife or when discussing the circumstances regarding her life and death. He'd never denied her an answer, no matter how uncomfortable or unsure she'd been in the asking. Despite all her hesitation, he showed none. Later, she came to realize that, perhaps without knowing or trying, he'd kept her grounded. She had wanted to thank him for that.

Briefly, she'd contemplated the possibility of something beyond a professional relationship, and she imagined he did as well. She felt a warmth, the first shot of liquor on a cold night, rippling out from her abdomen to her fingers and toes, the heat rising from her neck and reddening her cheeks…the time alone in the warehouse, just before she began her first lesson on paradoxical architecture; the sidelong glance and small smile sent her way after Cobb's public appreciation for her work on the project. She'd kept it at bay with the thought that he held no equal regard for her, as well as with the urgency of the job and potential dire consequences of failure.

She just didn't have the time for a crush.

By the time The Flight came, she was too damned scared for Cobb, for all of them, to dwell on romance. Eames had stopped joking by then, Yusuf wasn't smiling as much. Stolen glances and half-smirks were nonexistent, and everyone, she and Arthur included, were all business.

And then, out of nowhere, came that kiss.

She has two choices.

She could turn around and walk, no run away, and hope to hell he takes the hint this time, or she could just stop all the dancing around and find out what he wanted.

Eventually, she knows she'll find out one way or another, whether she wants to or not. Having bumped into her, in two different countries, no less, she decides he must have a point to make. And having known him for the brief time that she had, she knows he's, if anything, meticulous and tenacious.

No point in delaying the inevitable.

He seems surprised as she closes the distant between them with long, determined strides, doing her best to keep her face impassive. He sits up straighter in his seat, almost indecisive in his movements before he stands quickly, his stance guarded, as though he expects her to skip past him at the last moment.

She keeps her eyes glued to a spot just below his chin, not entirely confident she'd be able to keep up appearances if she were forced to look him in the eye. Even the weight of his eyes while she speaks is almost enough to make her wither, her voice lacking the impetus to make her inquiry as hostile as she'd like, and she's nearly horrified to hear a subtle tremor beneath her words.

"Arthur, what are you-"

"Ariadne, I need you to turn around and go back to your hotel." His voice is subdued, but urgent, imbuing a calm that is out of place.

Well, that isn't what was supposed to happen at all. She blinks stupidly up at him for the span of several heartbeats. He isn't looking at her, but over her, and the childish urge to slap him is almost overwhelming until she sees something in the lines of his face that brings her senses to an almost painful acuity.

Worry.

He is withdrawing without backing away, if that's possible, and her world is turned on its axis for the second time that day. Understanding dawns. She forces a polite smile, a nod of her head as she takes a step backwards. Now a casual, amiable wave, and she can imagine the dialogue that would go with this scene, but instead she asks as she turns, "You'll explain this later, right?"

She doesn't see the look on his face, only hears the promise in his voice.

"Yes, Ariadne. Soon."


End file.
